In Your Dreams
by rockstarpeach
Summary: Sam has a naughty dream about his brother. How does Dean react? Sam/Dean, Adult material.


Sam stuck his scuffed-up key into the equally worn looking lock of their motel room, and turned it. He pushed the door open, intending to walk through, but of course, Dean practically hip checked him, sending Sam into the door frame, hard, while his brother walked past, completely unapologetic.

"I get first shower, dude," Dean called, already half way across the room, jacket tossed on the bed he'd apparently claimed as his own, arms tangled in his two shirts as he lifted them up and over is head. "I feel disgusting. What the hell was that shit he sprayed at us?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, to argue, to tell Dean to fuck off, and that _he_ deserved a shower first, because _he_ was the one with Chupacabra guts all over him, and Dean was the one who'd spent half the fight groaning on the floor, but then Dean toed off his shoes, and slid his pants down, bending over slightly as he did to take them off, and Sam forgot how to speak.

The sleek line of his brother's back, mottled with the bruises and grime of a fight, stretched and taught as he shucked off his shirt, was nothing compared to the near perfection of Dean's tight, round ass, and what Sam could only imagine was underneath his boxers. Sam wanted to reach his hand between those slightly bowed legs and feel for himself what was there, get down on his knees and suck him down, tackle Dean to the floor and fuck him right through the carpet.

You know, in that completely abstract, never in a million years way.

"Catchin' flies, there, Cletus?" Dean's amused voice asked, interrupting his thoughts, and he snapped his head up to Dean's face, and clamped his mouth shut, hard enough to clatter his teeth together. Shit. He'd been staring. And Dean had caught him. "We could have stopped for somethin' to eat if you were that hungry."

"Fuck off," Sam said, little heat behind it. Dean's almost smug grin was pissing him off, but he was mostly just embarrassed. He'd been staring at Dean a lot lately, as much as he tried not to, and Dean was having much too good a time making fun of him when he did.

It wasn't like Dean knew what he was thinking while he looked, didn't know all the dirty little things Sam secretly imagined, couldn't possibly, because for one thing, Sam wasn't gay, and for another, Dean was his brother. Dean just thought he was so awesome that people staring at him was the norm, and of course wouldn't have ever considered the possibility that his brother was a giant pervert.

Probably thought it was just a bit of harmless hero worship, and teasing Sam about how much cooler he was, was obviously never going to get old.

Dean snickered at Sam's brilliant comeback, and turned around again, walking toward the bathroom. He opened the door and stepped inside, shouting over his shoulder, "And check to see if they've got laundry in this shithole! I'm out of clean clothes!" before shutting the door behind him.

Sam snorted and shook his head, not that Dean could see it. "Jerk," he mumbled, and tossed his bag on the floor, sliding the deadbolt home, and hooking the chain lock in place.

He heard the shower turn on and groaned a pained groan as he tried not to think about Dean in the shower, Dean wet and soapy, hands rubbing all over his body, cleaning, touching, stroking… yeah, he really needed to not think about that.

What he needed was a girl. He mentally shrugged, slipping out of his jacket. Or a guy. Or fucking _Ruby_ for fuck's sake. At this point, he wasn't picky. He hadn't gotten laid in far too long, and it was clearly fucking with his head.

He quickly stripped off his clothes, leaving them scattered haphazardly on the floor (along with most of the Chupacabra's guts) on the way to his bed, and didn't, not for one second, even as he glanced at the phone that would connect him to the front desk, consider asking anyone about laundry.

True, he was running low on clean clothes as well, they both always were, considering they had less than a half dozen changes, but Dean could take care of his own damn laundry. Sam wasn't his bitch.

Of course he wasn't, Sam reminded himself, and tried to ignore the part of his brain that knew it was going to make the call first thing in the morning, when he actually had enough energy. God he was tired. Fighting a Mexican goat sucker took more out of you than you'd think.

He stopped in front of his bed, collapsing on it, face first, not bothering to get under the covers, or try to get comfortable. He was just waiting until Dean was finished, so he could have his own shower, and didn't want to fall asleep first.

His boxer-briefs were fitting a little bit snug at the moment, but he didn't want to take them off right now, not with Dean coming back soon, because they were close, but not _that_ close, and no matter what his own fucked up libido was trying to convince him of, he didn't want them to be.

Nope.

He was just going to lie here, rest his eyes, try to forget about the way his body ached all over, and not picture the way Dean's face would look, head thrown back in ecstasy as he gripped himself, hard and desperate, and found his release under the warm spray of a cheap motel shower.

***

_He's dreaming. He has to be. Because Dean is with him, naked, and so is he all of a sudden, although mysteriously vanishing underwear is somewhat less surprising than the fact they're both clean and dry, and it's _sunny_. They're outside, he thinks, but he can't really tell where, can't see anything but Dean's face, eyes closed, bottom lip held tightly between his teeth, and the near blinding sun behind him, brightness everywhere. _

_Can't feel anything but Dean inside him, pushing, pushing, and the soft tickle of too-long grass at his back, his legs, his toes. _

_Can't hear anything but Dean's soft panting breath in his ear, his occasional moans and gasps._

_This must me hell, Sam thinks, even as it feels like heaven, because he _did not _want to feel these things, think these things, not about Dean. He didn't, and it was a torture that he couldn't seem to escape. This is hell, and he can't get enough._

***

"Sammy," Dean said in his ear, the sound coming out raspy, like he hadn't spoken in days, and Sam jerked, and suddenly he was back in the crappy motel, on the lumpy mattress, in his underwear. He could feel the bed dip where Dean sat down next to him, and put a hand on his shoulder, presumably to wake him. Though why he didn't just throw something at him, or sneak up and shout in his ear, Sam didn't know.

He tried to slow his rapidly beating heart, tried to will down the giant hard-on that was threatening to poke right out of his shorts, and tried to stop his voice from squeaking as he turned his head to look at Dean. "You," he squeaked, and cleared his throat, tried again. "You done?" he asked, hoping to God that the answer was yes, and Sam could hide in the bathroom for a while.

Dean just nodded, tiny pink tongue sliding out of his mouth to lick his lips, and Sam tracked the movement with his eyes, his own mouth falling slightly open again. He closed it quickly, not wanting Dean to make fun of him again, and turned his head, making to push off the mattress, and stand.

Dean's hand didn't leave his shoulder. In fact, it put more force on it, pressing Sam down so that he couldn't get up, and with an audible swallow, Sam let him. He let himself relax, or tried to anyway, lying on his stomach while Dean's hand moved slowly from his shoulder down his back, just the fingertips now that he was sure Sam wasn't going anywhere.

What. The. Fuck.

Did Dean know? Had he been talking in his sleep, and said his name, cried out, moaned, humped the bed like a fourteen year old? Was Dean fucking with him? He had to be. It was the only explanation.

"Dean," Sam said, and was proud, because it sounded almost normal. A little confused maybe, possibly nervous, but definitely not squeaky. "What…?"

"Shhh," Dean cooed, cutting him off, and leaned down over him, pressed his entire body against Sam's, and _fuck_, that's when Sam realised Dean was naked. And hard.

He wanted to turn around, wanted to _look_, to look at Dean's cock, see it for the first time, hard and eager, and then he wanted to do a lot more than look. But he wouldn't. He couldn't, even if he'd wanted to, because he was pretty sure he couldn't move. He was paralysed.

Maybe this wasn't Dean, maybe it was some sort of sexy paralysing monster, and it totally wasn't his fault that he was just laying there, letting it paw at him, his cock not getting any softer while it did.

And then 'Dean' licked across the back of his neck, a long, wet swipe of his tongue, and Sam moaned out loud, and his hands clenched the pillow tightly, his toes curling, and there went that idea.

"Shit," he cursed, barely a breath, and Dean chuckled behind him, thrust against him, leaving a wet trail across Sam's hip. "Dean… fuck, what are you…?"

"I told you," Dean said, and suddenly his weight, his warmth, were gone from Sam's back, and Sam screwed his eyes shut, and tried not to miss them. Dean not touching him was a _good_ thing. Damn right it was.

And then Dean's hands were on Sam again, one on his arm, the other around his middle, pulling him up, so that he was kneeling, legs slightly spread, still facing the wall behind the bed. "Shhh," Dean reminded him, kneeling behind him, and when Dean's hands, large, and warm from the shower, slid around him, encouraging him to lean back against his naked front, Sam thought _fuck it_, and did as Dean suggested, and shut the hell up.

He turned his head slightly, chin over his shoulder, not quite looking at Dean, not daring, for fear of breaking whatever fucked up spell this was, and closed his eyes as Dean's hands drifted lower.

They moved down from his chest, over his stomach, solid and sure, not tickling, not teasing, slid past his belly and over his hips. Dean's thumbs caught in the waist of his underwear, started to tug them down, and he could feel his breath, hot and heavy over his shoulder.

No, he'd been wrong before. That had just been a dream. _This_ was hell. He wanted to tell Dean to stop, that he didn't want this, but then one of Dean's hands drifted lower, palmed his stiff cock roughly through his shorts, and Sam keened, a pathetic needy sound, and he knew Dean wouldn't have believed him. Fuck, _he_ didn't even believe him.

"Want you, Sammy," Dean whispered, and Sam shivered, didn't open his eyes, didn't say yes, or no. He let out a breath and leaned back against Dean further, hips jerking forward just slightly, pushing his prick into Dean's greedy hand. "Take that as a yes," he heard from behind him, and then Dean pushed his own hips forward, his erection trapped between them, nudging between Sam's cheeks, only the thin cotton of his underwear separating them.

"Gunh," Sam cried, and he ground back against Dean, needing more of that touch, needing _him_, needing to feel Dean's hardness against him, _inside_ him. Shit, this was embarrassing.

Dean's hands left his hips again to travel upward, and Sam whimpered, and he knew Dean was going to tease him later for being such a pussy, but fuck, he needed that touch. Right now, he didn't think he could live without it.

With one hand on his chest and the other on his back, Dean bent him over, lowered him down so that his head was resting gently on the pillow, his knees still on the mattress, so that his ass was slightly raised, and he bit his lip as Dean's hands both moved to the waist of his boxers again, and Sam held his breath.

Dean slid them down, and Sam let him, encouraged him with his gasps and hitched breaths, and they settled around his knees, forgotten, while Dean cupped his sac, gently kneading, rolling his balls around in his palm, and Sam thought he was going to hyperventilate.

"Fuck, Dean…" he breathed out, rotating his hips to increase the sensation, and Dean's hand slid up to his cock, wrapping his fingers around it, fucking _finally_, and started to stroke. Dean placed his other hand at the base of Sam's spine, applying just enough pressure to make Sam aware of it, before it slid down, trailing across his crack, middle fingers dipping into the crevice.

And then the hand on his dick got quicker, Dean's thumb rubbing over his slit and spreading some of his own natural lubrication around, squeezing hard, so hard it almost hurt, and it felt so fucking good.

And then Dean was inside him. He didn't know how it had happened without him knowing, or what Dean had done to prepare him that made it so easy, because it didn't hurt. It didn't even sting a little. Wasn't even uncomfortable, like he'd thought he would be. Not that he'd ever thought about anything like this. Not at all.

He just felt full. So fucking awesomely full, and he couldn't decide if he wanted to push back against Dean, try to get his cock further up his ass (not that he was sure that was entirely possible, the way Dean was riding him), or push forward into his fist, thick, calloused fingers stroking up and down his shaft.

He tried to do both, not really able to do either, and it was a damn good thing Dean seemed to have more control over himself than Sam did, or he'd just be a writhing, moaning mess of useless, horny flesh. But Dean held him up, and Dean pounded into him, and Dean worked his cock like nobody else in this world had, and Sam was going to come.

Fuck. Sam was going to come, on a random motel bed, getting fucked in the ass and jerked off by his _brother_, and he really was going to take the time to think about how wrong that was. Tomorrow. Right now, he just wanted to get off, and he was close. So damn close.

"Oh God," he said, pumping his hips forward and back in stilted little half thrusts. He was _so close_. "Oh, Dean."

"Sammy," Dean said from behind him, and Sam was ridiculously grateful that Dean's voice was as needy and strained as his own. "Sammy. Sammy, Sammy…"

Dean thrust harder, twisted his wrist so that his fingers curled tighter around Sam's cock. "Dean," he mumbled, face in the pillow now, blindly thrusting forward, seeking out the needed stimulation.

"Sam. Sam. Sam…"

Dean's voice sounded farther away now, like he was so lost in the throes of his _(so damn close to)_ orgasm that everything else was muted, not quite real.

"Sammy!" Dean's voice was louder now, and more clear, tinted with humour instead of lust, and Sam felt Dean flick the back of his ear with his middle finger.

Sam blinked, trying to make sense of Dean's sudden change in demeanour through his fog of lust, and his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light of the motel room, and… oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

"Dean?" he asked, turning his head to look at his brother, hair still wet from his shower, and standing next to the bed, wearing his pyjama pants and amused smile. Fuck! He wasn't thrusting into the mattress any longer, and thank God for that, but based on the shit eating grin Dean was wearing, Sam was pretty damn sure he had been, and his brother wasn't going to let him forget it any time soon.

"Hey there sleeping beauty," Dean smiled teasingly, and glanced down to Sam's middle, where he was valiantly trying to hide his rampant erection between his body and the bed. "Dreamin' about Brad Pitt again?"

"Fuck off," Sam instructed, for the second time that night, face contorted in a frown, and tried to plan the best way to get up off the bed, and into the bathroom, while hiding his severely unsatisfied cock from his brother. At least he hadn't said Dean's name out loud, so the depth of his depravity was still a secret. At least for now.

He was suddenly very glad that his orgasm hadn't come easily in his dream (and fuck, he should have known it was a dream) because he really didn't want to explain to Dean a giant wet spot on the front of his shorts, or why he needed to call the front desk for a new pair of sheets at past two in the morning.

Only teenagers with raging, unchecked hormones had wet dreams. And Sam was as big, grown-up, manly man.

"Have fun, princess!" Dean called, half laughing, as Sam slipped from his bed and headed to the bathroom to shower, keeping his back to Dean the whole time. Sam lifted up his left hand, raising the middle finger tall and proud, and Dean laughed harder.

Sam rolled his eyes and slipped into the small bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him, before turning on the shower, slipping off his underwear and stepping in.

The spray was hot, felt good, relaxed his tense muscles, soothed his battle wounds. He was still hard, still needed to get off, and he took himself in hand, stroking hard and fast, needing to get it done.

Brad Pitt huh? Well, it was better than thinking about Dean, so if that's what it took…

END


End file.
